


speak the language of love like you know what it means

by Rhovanel



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Accidental Soul Bond, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Arguing, Coming Untouched, Enemies to Lovers, Fake Marriage, Happy Ending, Light Angst, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Porn with Feelings, Rimming, lots of feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-06-27 16:33:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19794733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhovanel/pseuds/Rhovanel
Summary: When the Magisterium unearths an old Tevene law that threatens Dorian with a lifetime of slavery, the Inquisition’s only defence is an ancient elven bonding spell.





	speak the language of love like you know what it means

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wednesday](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wednesday/gifts).



_Dorian - beware the upcoming Tevinter visit to Skyhold. The Magisterium means to magically bind you to their service. It is an old law, the "animus possidendi," which can be invoked when a person refuses to serve the legacy of their bloodline. I have never heard of such a thing but it seems serious. They are due to arrive before the moon wanes - find out what you can?_

_\- Maevaris_

* * *

****Dorian stands in the library, clutching Maevaris’s letter in his hand while he scans the shelves.

When the Inquisition had first received the request from the Magisterium, Trevelyan had laughed. Yet Josephine had said that any diplomatic gesture from Tevinter needed to be treated seriously, and so they had accepted the request to host a small retinue. The Magisterium had promised to bring knowledge that will aid in the fight against Corypheus, and there is talk that perhaps they are frightened of the false god. Dorian suspects that the Inquisition’s power has simply grown to the point where the Magisterium can no longer oppose them.

He had remained suspicious of their intentions - the Magisterium does not do gestures of goodwill. And Maevaris’s note has proved him right.

He had shown the note to Trevelyan, who had called for a meeting with Leliana and Josephine. Leliana wanted blood and Josephine wanted parley and Trevelyan wanted to send Dorian to the other side of Ferelden, and they had argued and argued well into the afternoon. Eventually he left them squabbling in the war room to return to the library, determined to find the source of the law. Like Maevaris, he has never heard of the _animus possidendi_ \- he has tried all the volumes of the _Lege Lata_ , the Imperial books of law, but has found nothing. _The Lege Ferenda_ , the ancient book of laws that founded the Imperium, is his last hope.

He finds the old book hidden away on a bottom shelf, and he pulls it out with a plume of dust. Coughing slightly, he opens the volume and begins to scan for the law. Sure enough, he finds it in the list.

_Animus possidendi: resistance to the proper course of the bloodline will be corrected by force._

The page is filled with details of the indenture spell and examples of where it will be applied, most of which seem to focus on ensuring that those born into slavery remain slaves for life. But there is enough flexibility in the wording that Dorian can see how it could be applied to him, and his “failure” to produce an heir for House Pavus or to further the cause of the Magisterium.

He swallows his dread and looks back at the page. There is writing in the margins, something that has obviously been added to the page. Squinting at the text, he realises it’s a form of elven, although he cannot recognise any of the words.

But he knows who might be able to, and he sighs, picking up the book and making his way down the stairs.

Solas is sitting at his desk, absorbed in a large tome. He doesn’t look up until Dorian drops the book on his desk, sending papers flying.

He glares at him. “Must you do that?”

“I could have dropped it from the balcony,” Dorian smirks. “I took the courtesy of walking all the way down the stairs, and not even a thank you?”

Solas sighs. “What do you need?”

“I…” Dorian pauses. “Your help.”

Solas manages to look both surprised and smug at once, and Dorian rolls his eyes. “Your translation services,” he clarifies, opening the book and gesturing to the margin text.

“Very well,” Solas replies, glancing down at the page. He jerks like he’s been hit with a lightning spell, eyebrows shooting up. “Where did you find this?” he asks sharply, leaning forward over the volume.

“Finding a book in a roomful of books, whatever is the world coming to?”

Solas huffs with annoyance. “It is a very old book.”

“Yes, it is an ancient Tevene text,” Dorian replies. He doesn’t elaborate on exactly why he needs that particular volume. “Can you translate the marginalia or not?”

Solas pauses. “It is a bonding spell,” he says at last. “It would have been performed at the _sal'shiral tuathal_.” He glances up at Dorian. “Your equivalent would be marriage.”

“A betrothal spell?” Dorian sighs. “Wonderful, I suppose I shall fight forced indenture with the power of love.” He reaches for the book, but Solas grabs his wrist. Dorian looks at him with surprise.

“Indenture?”

Dorian nods at the page. “The Imperium has unearthed some archaic ritual to bind me to their services. It’s quite flattering, really, I cannot think how long they must have spent in their libraries searching for it.” He pulls his wrist out of Solas’s grip. “I was hoping that this was some form of counter-spell, but it appears it is useless.”

“No,” Solas says. “It is not.”

Dorian blinks at him.

Solas looks back at the page. “The spell was designed to protect against slavery,” he says. “Ancient forms of slavery used magical bonds to tie the slave to their owner, so that they were attuned to their every whim and desire.” He pauses. “Or so I have seen, in the Fade.”

“Emotional slavery,” Dorian says. “That does sound like Tevinter. But why would anyone believe a betrothal would stop anything?”

“If a person had already formed a bond freely, they could not be forced into another.” He points at the page. “ _Let no one tear asunder what is given in freedom_ ,” he translates. “ _Let no one be bonded but by choice_.”

“Fighting slavery with love? Rather sentimental.”

Solas’s nostrils flare slightly. “It was effective,” he says, a note of defensiveness in his voice.

“Yes, alright,” Dorian sighs. “All resistance to slavery is noble and honorable.”

“Resistance?” Leliana asks, walking into the rotunda with Josephine. “Have you found something?”

“A historical relic,” Dorian says. “Nothing useful.”

“Let’s hear it, and then we will decide,” she says.

“There was old elven magic to protect against forced indenture,” Solas explains.

“Old elven magic,” Leliana repeats. “Is this something that might still work today?”

“I am not sure if it will still be effective.”

“Of course it will not be effective,” Dorian mutters. “Solving this problem with marriage is ridiculous.”

“Marriage?” Josephine asks.

“The spell creates betrothal bonds that prevent the creation of similar bonds by force,” Solas says.

Josephine gasps. “How romantic!”

Leliana smiles. “It is poetic,” she says. “And it may be worth trying, if Solas believes he can perform the magic?”

Solas looks startled. “I…suppose,” he says.

Josephine looks delighted. “A wedding!” she says. “Oh, we could fill the main hall with flowers, and we will need-”

“Stop,” Dorian interrupts. “Do I get a say in my own marriage? Or will I just be sold off to the highest bidder?”

“Dorian,” Leliana says gently. “Would you prefer to be taken back to Tevinter in chains?”

Dorian sighs. “No, I suppose not.”

“The magic will not work if you do not freely consent,” Solas says. “If there is any hint of coercion, the bond will be weak and easily destroyed by another.”

“So I need to find someone who I am willing to marry, and who is willing to marry me?” Dorian runs a hand through his hair. “It would be easier to just let Tevinter take me.”

“Come now, Dorian,” Leliana says. “I am sure there are plenty of men here who would leap at the chance to call you their husband.”

“It should be a mage,” Josephine says. “The Magisterium may not recognise the claim otherwise.”

“So I should go and find a man among the mages?” he snaps. “Dear Fiona, perhaps you would like to take some time out of your busy schedule to play matchmaker?”

“No,” Leliana says. “You cannot just wed anyone - this must be someone we trust. And it needs to be believable, if the Magisterium think to ask questions.”

“Which they almost certainly will,” Dorian sighs. “Well, where am I to find an eligible bachelor who is one: a mage; two: willing to marry me; and three: whom I am willing to wed in return?”

Josephine and Leliana both turn to look at Solas. There is a terrible silence in the room.

“No,” Solas snaps.

“Absolutely not,” Dorian says.

“Why not?” Leliana says, her eyes sparkling with amusement.

“We…” Dorian finds himself at a loss for words. _We don’t even like each other_ sounds petty and small. “No one will believe it - we argue constantly.”

“I don’t know,” Josephine smiles. “Some would say that was the recipe for a healthy marriage.”

“Surely there is someone else,” Solas says.

Dorian shakes his head. “This is ridiculous. And Solas said that this has to be freely given - if we are doing it under your duress,” he says, pointing a finger at Leliana, “it is futile regardless.”

“What would you rather do? Run for the rest of your life?” Leliana snaps. “This is our best option, and you know it.”

There is a short silence in the room. “I agree,” Solas says suddenly.

Dorian whips his head around to look at him. “You _what_?”

“I will marry you,” he says. “I detest slavery. I…I will do what I can to protect you from it.”

Josephine clutches her hands to her chest. “It _is_ romantic!” she says.

Solas glares at her. “It is purely pragmatic.”

“A pragmatic marriage,” Dorian mutters. “The stuff of every young man’s dreams.”

“But you know that Tevinter will not look kindly on a marriage with an elf.”

“Actually, that’s the first good point anyone’s made,” Dorian says thoughtfully. “A magical marriage, to a man, and an elf? The Magisterium will hate it three times over.”

Solas sighs. “A marriage designed to spite another? That is hardly the ‘stuff of dreams.’”

“Would you like me to propose?” Dorian asks with a smirk. “Darling Solas, light of my life, will you do me the honour of binding your life to mine?”

“Enough,” Solas sighs.

“Are we agreed, then?” Leliana asks with a smile, looking between them.

He looks at Solas, whose face is inscrutable as ever. “Alright,” he says slowly.

“We should do this soon,” Leliana says. “The Tevinter contingent will be here before long. You need some time to get used to one another - and you will have to act the part.”

“What do you mean?” Solas asks.

“She means that we will need to make the marriage seem convincing,” Dorian sighs. “The Magisterium will not react well if they see it as a sham.”

“That includes now,” Leliana continues. “The Inquisition must believe it too.”

“The whole Inquisition?” Dorian exclaims.

“Not Trevelyan, I think,” Josephine says. “But everyone else, yes.”

Dorian looks at Solas. “Can you act?”

“Yes,” Solas says.

Dorian waits, but he doesn’t offer anything more. “You had better be able to,” he sighs.

“But the wedding!” Josephine sighs.

“You can plan a celebration for when Tevinter arrives,” Leliana says. “But we should wed them tonight.”

“The Chantry?” Josephine asks.

“No,” Solas says firmly. “I will not do this within the walls of the Chantry.”

“We don’t need to, do we?” Dorian says. “If the bond is magical, not divine…” he trails off. “Wait - how exactly does this magical bond work?”

“In its original form it would have created an emotional…conduit, of sorts,” Solas says. “But the spell is old, and this age's magic is not the same. It will have no impact.”

“But it will still prevent another bond?” Leliana asks.

“Yes,” Solas replies. “The fact of the bond will remain - it is merely the intensity that will differ. It will be empty, if you will.”

Dorian frowns. “That hardly makes sense. If the bond exists, surely we will feel it?”

“You know little of old elven magic,” Solas snaps. “Do you not trust me?”

“Fine,” Dorian says. “I’ll believe you. Consider it a wedding present.”

Solas sighs.

“We do not need the Chantry,” Leliana interrupts. “I am ordained to sanctify a marriage. We can perform the rites in the war room tonight.”

“I will need some time to prepare,” Solas says.

“Whatever for?” Dorian asks. “Can you not just-”

“It is ancient magic, Dorian,” Solas interrupts. “It requires care and finesse - although I would not expect you to understand either.”

“Really, Solas?” Dorian snaps. “That is hardly the thing to say to the man you are about to marry.”

Solas closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Congratulations to the both of you,” Leliana smiles.

Dorian groans.

By the time evening falls, Dorian feels oddly nervous, anxiety and anticipation humming beneath his skin. He had changed his outfit three times before he was satisfied. He is being foolish, he knows, but he will not turn up to his own wedding under-dressed.

He had been taken to countless weddings as a child and young man. He had watched the men and women pledge themselves to one another, listened to the gossip about affairs and love matches, danced with the young women his parents had directed him towards. He had only ever thought about his own wedding in the abstract, but from a very young age he had known that it would likely not be a happy affair.

As he walks towards the war room, he supposes he was right: that he was not meant to have a marriage born from anything other than pragmatism.

He opens the door to the war room to see Solas in conversation with Leliana. He is still wearing his tunic and leggings.

“You didn’t even change?” Dorian asks with horror.

Solas raises an eyebrow at him. “You did not need to go to such an effort,” he says. “There is no one here to witness.”

“It is our wedding!” Dorian exclaims. The words feel strange in his mouth, and he grimaces slightly. “We are here to witness it!”

“No, that would be my job,” a voice says from behind him, and he turns to see Josephine, Trevelyan, and Varric entering the room.

“Why is he here?” Solas asks.

“Heard you two need a love story,” Varric says with a grin. “That’s my speciality.”

Solas shoots him a withering glare.

“A Tevinter magister and an elven apostate - held apart by society, brought together by love,” Varric proclaims.

“I am an altus,” Dorian snaps.

“They argue, they snipe, they disagree constantly - but could all that passion be leading them somewhere else?”

Trevelyan snorts.

“When one of them lands in mortal peril, will their true feelings rise to the surface?”

“Please stop,” Solas says.

“Thank you, Varric,” Leliana says, a hint of a smile on her lips. “But you are simply required to witness the union tonight."

“Yeah, it’s a work in progress, I know,” Varric replies.

“Are you ready?” Leliana asks.

“Yes,” Dorian replies. He looks at Solas. “Do I need to do anything? Say anything?”

“There are some lines of elven you will need to recite,” he says. “I will say them first, and you will repeat them to me: _Sul’eman emma asahn sul’ema, Juame mar shalasha, la ane emma, Lasan ara'len sul saota_.”

Dorian repeats the lines few times before Solas is satisfied. “What do they mean?”

“Does it matter?”

“Does it matter?” Dorian asks incredulously. “I could be agreeing to anything.”

“I thought you were offering me your trust.”

“And I thought you were offering me your protection, not your sovereignty.”

He swears he sees him flinch slightly. “You are right,” he says. “Forgive me.” He picks up the book on the table and turns it so Dorian can see, pointing to each line in turn. “I give what is mine to give,” Solas translates. “I shall be your armor, as you are mine; and I give you myself to make one from two.”

“Sentimental,” Dorian mutters.

“They are wedding rites, what did you expect?”

“Enough,” Trevelyan interrupts. “I know you’re both…look, let’s just get on with it.”

“Face me,” Solas says, and Dorian turns dutifully. “Place your hand on my chest, like this,” he says. He places his hand on Dorian’s left breast, right above his heart. Dorian does the same to Solas. He can feel his heart beating in his chest, more rapidly than he expected.

He raises an eyebrow at Solas, who shoots him a look. He supposes his own heart rate is rather elevated.

“ _Sul'eman emma asahn sul’ema_ ,” Solas says. He nods slightly at Dorian.

“ _Sul'eman emma asahn sul’ema_ ,” he repeats. _I give what is mine to give_ , he thinks.

“ _Juame mar shalasha, la ane emma_ ,” Solas says, more softly than before.

“ _Juame mar shalasha, la ane emma_ ,” Dorian says. _I shall be your armor, as you are mine_.

There is a strange intimacy about the room. The twilight hush sits heavy on his shoulders and Solas’s hand is a warm pressure. The unfamiliar words feel strange and solemn in his mouth, but their translation (full of grace and generosity and- and sentiment) fills his heart with an even stranger feeling.

“ _Lasan ara'len sul saota_ ,” Solas says, his fingers twitching slightly against Dorian’s chest.

Dorian takes a breath. “ _Lasan ara'len sul saota_.” _I give you myself to make one from two._

There is a strange flash of light, throwing them both backwards. Dorian crashes into a chair, sliding awkwardly to the ground.

He sits up, blinking. “What in the world was that?” he asks. He feels disoriented and confused and oddly… _horrified_ , somehow. The horror is a strange kind of feeling, distanced and echoed, like it both belongs and does not belong to him.

He turns to look at Solas, who is staring at him aghast. It is in that moment that he realises the horror is not his own.

“You said the spell would no longer work!” he cries.

Solas winces. “Would you stop shouting your emotions at me?”

“I’m not shouting!” Dorian yells. He pauses. “I am not shouting,” he says more quietly. “I am just…confused.”

“Yes, I know,” Solas says. “Stop projecting it.”

Dorian can feel Solas’s own emotions echoing through him, a mix of _exasperation-horror._

“I am doing nothing of the sort,” he snaps. “Your hardened little heart is just obviously unable to deal with this.”

Solas pauses. _confusion-dread-exasperation_ “You are not deliberately magnifying your feelings through the bond?”

“Why on earth would I do that?” Dorian says. “I hardly even know what…this is,” he says, gesturing between them.

“But…” Solas trails off, staring at him aghast.

_shock-horror-distress-guilt-shock_

Solas pushes himself to his feet. “I am sorry, Dorian,” he says. “I did not anticipate this.” He turns and walks quickly out of the room.

There is a silence in the room.

“Well,” says Varric. “I suppose there isn’t going to be a kiss?”

* * *

****

Solas sweeps out of the war room without a backwards glance. He can feel his heart hammering in his chest, and a sick feeling curling through his gut.

But more importantly, he can feel Dorian, a heady mix of _confusion-anger-frustration_ fluttering away somewhere deep inside him.

The spell shouldn’t have worked. He knows the spell - it is _his_ spell, designed to prevent his people from being bound in false devotion to even falser gods. He had performed it many times in his life, presided over many unions, secure in his belief that he had the power to sweep away injustice with the force of his convictions.

And the spell should not have worked here, in this half-world in front of the Veil, in this population of shadows and spectres. It should have felt like nothing, because there is _nothing to feel_.

But Dorian burns within him, a flame of _annoyance_ and _disorientation_ , and he feels his world tilt on its axis.

He reaches his desk and places his hands flat on the surface, taking a deep, steadying breath. Each thought is worse than the one before: he has misapplied the spell; Dorian’s lack of self-restraint has twisted it; Dorian’s heart is an outlier in this numb world; his heart is _not_ an outlier at all. But no matter the answer, he has a feeling that somewhere, somehow, he has made a terrible, terrible mistake.

He raises his head, aware that Dorian is about to approach any second - he can feel his _dread-concern-anger_. He turns and leans against the desk, facing the open door, his heart hammering in his chest.

“So,” Dorian says, walking into the room and leaning against the ladder, crossing his arms over his chest. “It seems someone was mistaken about the effects of this particular spell.”

Solas bites down his retort, but he feels his own irritation and anxiety echoed by an answering wave of _frustration-anger-annoyance-worry_ from Dorian.

Dorian scoffs. “I am sorry that being bonded to me is causing you so much distress,” he drawls. “Perhaps I have a future as a fear demon.” Yet beneath the sarcasm, Solas can detect a tangled mess of _doubt-dread-gloom-hatred-guilt-shame._

 _How can he feel so much?_ he thinks.

“Dorian,” he begins, but Dorian raises a hand and cuts him off.

“Ugh, I do not need your pity,” he says. _anger-embarrassment_

“It is not pity,” Solas continues.

“Really? It feels a lot like it.”

“I apologise for reacting badly. I was unsettled by the turn of events. It is not personal.”

 _disbelief-indignation_ “Not personal?” Dorian says. “I am fairly certain that being both married and emotionally connected is the definition of personal.”

Solas pauses. “I have obviously made a mistake with the spell, and I am…not accustomed to being mistaken.”

 _amusement-indignation_ “Of course you are not,” Dorian scoffs. “Your arrogance knows no bounds.”

“You are no happier with this turn of events!” Solas exclaims. “I know you are not.”

 _irritation_ “Yes, yes, we cannot hide anything from one another any more,” Dorian says wearily.

A trickle of pure fear runs down his spine, and Dorian raises an eyebrow. _suspicion-curiosity_ “What has you so worried?”

He pauses again, trying to figure out what to say that is both emotionally true yet misleading enough. “I value my privacy,” he says eventually.

“Yes, I know,” Dorian says. “But unfortunately, there is little we can do about it. Unless you have changed your mind and want to remove the spell?” _dread-fear-hatred-anxiety-guilt_

“No,” Solas says, wincing against the force of Dorian’s complicated emotions about Tevinter. “No, I meant what I said about slavery. We will simply need to get used to it. It will only be temporary.”

“Speaking of getting used to things…” Dorian trails off. _embarrassment-dread._ “It is late, and we need to keep up appearances. We should go to bed.”

“Bed?” Solas asks.

 _annoyance-amusement_ “That is what couples do on their wedding night, Solas. It’s called sex - perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

Solas can feel himself flushing, and Dorian laughs softly at the wave of embarrassment he is obviously sharing.

“Do not get yourself into a state, I am not about to proposition you. Besides, do you even have sex with men?” _amusement-loneliness-sadness-shame_

Solas blinks at the rush of Dorian’s emotions, taken aback by the depths that lie beneath his joking exterior. He opens his mouth to say something conciliatory, but finds himself answering with the truth.

“Yes,” he says.

 _bewilderment-shock_ “What?” Dorian says. “Really?”

“It has been some time,” Solas says, looking away from Dorian’s shocked face. “But yes, I…yes.”

 _shock-surprise-astonishment_ For once in his life, Dorian seems speechless. “Well,” he says eventually. “I cannot say that I am not surprised.”

“You could,” Solas says. “But I would know otherwise - as you said, we can no longer hide anything from one another.”

 _amusement_ “I suppose I did,” Dorian says. “Well, in that case, you must be able to tell how much I would rather be out of this frozen room.”

“You would not be so cold if you did not wander around Skyhold with half your torso uncovered,” Solas mutters, but he follows Dorian out of the rotunda, ignoring the flash of _annoyance-amusement_ he feels.

As they enter the hall, Dorian reaches out and throws his arm around his shoulder. Solas flinches with surprise.

 _annoyance-frustration-amusement_ “Married, remember?” Dorian whispers in his ear.

Solas sighs, then leans into Dorian’s side, sliding his own arm around his waist. A passing soldier gives them a look of interest.

“Do you even have a bedroom?” Dorian asks. He is so close that Solas can smell whatever oils he decorates himself with, something of smoke and spice. “Or do you just drift off to the Fade wherever you want to? Wait, do not answer that, I am not sure that I want to know.”

He unlocks the door to his chamber. The room is cluttered with clothes and books and a long, plush settee, and brightly coloured cushions are strewn across the bed and on the floor. Solas wrinkles his nose slightly as the ostentation of it.

 _frustration-annoyance_ “Do not start,” Dorian mutters. “I cannot deal with your asceticism tonight.”

Solas takes a step towards the bed. “Why would anyone require so many cushions?” He pauses, then turns to look back at Dorian. “How do you even fit yourself into the bed?”

Dorian snorts. _amusement_ “Solas,” he says with a lewd smile. “What a thing to say to your husband on our wedding night! I did not think you had it in you.”

Solas shakes his head. “Honestly,” he mutters.

Dorian just laughs, sweeping the cushions onto the floor. Solas sighs.

 _embarrassment-anxiety_ “Well,” Dorian says, his smile falling slightly. “How do you want to do this? I suppose one of us could sleep on the settee.”

Solas pauses for a moment. “We will share,” he says. “It is no problem.”

 _surprise_ “What happened to your privacy?”

“Privacy of the flesh is of little concern,” he says, taking a step toward the bed. “There are deeper things than skin.” He turns to Dorian. “Unless you object?”

 _embarrassment-confusion_ “No, I suppose not,” he says, and begins to remove the rings from his fingers.

They both deliberately keep their eyes away from one another as they strip to their smallclothes and climb into the bed. Dorian reaches across and pinches the candle out with his fingers, plunging the room into darkness.

The bed is far too warm, and Solas sits up with irritation. “Dorian, you have too many furs. We will roast.”

 _annoyance_ “I’m sorry, I must have forgotten that we live in a tropical paradise instead of a drafty castle in the mountains,” Dorian says, sarcasm curling through his voice.

Solas sighs. “Then you can keep them on your side of the bed, and if you wake up in a sweat, you only have yourself to blame.” He gathers up the furs and shoves them at Dorian, then after a moment, pulls his undershirt over his head.

 _surprise-alarm_ “Are you taking your clothes off?” Dorian asks.

“Do _not_ start,” Solas snaps. “It is simply too hot.” He lies back down, rolling over to face the wall.

Silence falls between them once more.

_anxiety-fear-confusion-embarrassment-anxiety_

Dorian’s emotions roil within him, churning around in a tangled mess. He tries to ignore them for a few minutes, but eventually turns back to face Dorian. “Will you calm yourself so both of us can sleep?” he asks.

“Forgive me for being a little preoccupied at the thought of my impending indenture.”

“Do you not think the spell will work?”

“Oh, I think we’ve established that the spell works,” Dorian says. “No, I just…the Magisterium always has another card to play.”

_anxiety-fear-dread-terror_

Solas has seen similar dread and terror in the eyes of many an elf, frightened of the power and the tyranny of the Evanuris. Yet it is different to _feel_ it, and his heart clenches slightly in sympathy and concern. “Go to sleep,” he says, more gently than he had first intended. “This problem is not one you can solve by worrying at it in the darkness. It will still be there in the morning, and we will face it then.”

 _surprise_ “I have not thanked you, for agreeing to this,” Dorian says. “I know it is not ideal-”

“Hush,” he interrupts. “It is done. Now will you stop talking?”

Dorian snorts. _amusement_ “Goodnight, husband.”

“Goodnight, _ara’len_.”

“Is that elven for husband?”

“Stop. Talking.”

Dorian’s warm amusement follows him into sleep.

* * *

****

****When Dorian wakes, Solas is still sleeping. His face is relaxed and his brow, for once, is not furrowed. His profile is still stern - the deep-set eyes, the long, flat nose, the broad ears. But he looks younger in sleep, and Dorian’s eyes are drawn to the freckles on his face and the fullness of his lips.

He had been surprised enough when Solas had freely agreed to the marriage, but he was even more astonished at his revelation that he had fucked men in the past. He had said it so casually, without a hint of embarrassment or shame, as though he was answering a question about whether he’d read a particular book. Dorian wonders what it would be like to be so nonchalant about your desire, to not hold it carefully like an explosive threatening to destroy everything around you.

And as he stares at Solas’s sleeping face, he wonders what else might lie beneath that arrogant, taciturn exterior.

_indignation-exasperation_

His eyes snap back up to Solas’s, which are open and unimpressed.

“Must you stare at me like that?”

“Can I not look at my husband?”

 _exasperation_ Solas groans, pulling himself into a sitting position. “It is too early for this.”

“I think you’ll find marriage is a full time vocation,” Dorian says.

 _exasperation-amusement_ “I was not aware that marriage was considered work.”

“You don’t think a lasting partnership requires effort?” Dorian shakes his head. “Perhaps Josephine was right - perhaps you _are_ a romantic.”

Solas’s wave of _embarrassment-amusement_ is interrupted by a knock at the door. They exchange a surprised look. “Who is it?” Dorian calls.

“Kitchens, Magister Pavus,” comes the answer.

“Not a magister,” Dorian mutters, but he climbs out of bed and walks towards the door, opening it to reveal a young man holding a tray.

“Compliments and congratulations from the kitchen staff,” he says, bobbing his head. He raises it and looks at Dorian, then behind him to where Solas is sitting in the bed, and blushes deep red.

Dorian suppresses a groan, made all the more difficult by the wave of intense _mortification_ he feels from Solas. He knows exactly how this looks - particularly because the damn elf refused to sleep with a shirt - but he also knows that this is exactly the impression they need to be giving.

“Thank you,” Solas calls from behind him. “And thank the kitchen for us.”

Dorian takes the tray, and the young man ducks his head again and all but flees.

“Well,” Dorian says, depositing the tray on the settee. “I suppose the castle will be alight with rumours of our torrid love affair by the time we leave the room.”

 _exasperation_ “Dorian, please,” Solas sighs. “We are wed, it is hardly torrid.”

“But it is still a love affair, then?” he says with a smirk.

 _amusement-exasperation_ “It is supposed to be.” He climbs out of bed and picks up his tunic, pulling it over his head.

Dorian wrinkles his nose. “You had better not be wearing that to the reception. Do you even have any formal clothes?” He looks around the room. “I suppose you could wear something of mine.”

 _anger-fury_ “I will not wear the clothes of Tevinter,” Solas snaps. “But if you insist, I will speak to the tailor.”

Dorian looks at him dubiously, and Solas glares in response.

“Fine,” Dorian says. “Do what you will. Just do not embarrass me.”

He feels a flash of hurt from Solas, sharper than he had expected. “I’m sorry,” he sighs. “I did not mean to offend you.”

 _hurt-exasperation-sadness_ “I know you have little regard for my person,” Solas says. “But could you try to refrain from commenting on it, at least while we continue to perform this charade?”

Dorian pauses. He doesn’t object to Solas’s form - he has terrible sense in clothing and he is, well, odd looking, all sharp angles and narrow limbs. But he has broad shoulders and a tapered waist, and he has a…presence about him, one that might be alluring, in the right context.

 _discomfort-confusion-surprise-embarrassment_ “You are staring again,” Solas says, but the tips of his ears are red.

Dorian swallows and looks away. “Shall we take this outside?” he asks, gesturing at the tray. It is a peace offering, and Solas clearly understands, a wave of gratitude emanating from him.

He picks up the tray while Dorian dresses, and they walk down the stairs and into the courtyard, sitting down on a bench. Solas goes to place the tray between them, but Dorian, conscious of the public location, moves around to sit next to him, pressing their thighs together. It is early enough that there are not too many people in the garden, but the castle will soon stir, and there are appearances to keep up.

Solas pours him a cup of tea, taking one for himself. He grimaces slightly as he takes a sip. _distaste_

Dorian stares at him. “Do you not like tea?” he asks.

“No,” he replies.

“Then why do you drink it?”

“Sometimes I require the stimulation.”

“You could drink Antivan coffee - if this blasted place had any, that is.”

Solas grimaces again. “Coffee is far worse.”

“Do you take pleasure in your own suffering?”

 _exasperation_ “Just drink your tea,” Solas sighs.

“Well, I can’t very well enjoy it now, not when I can feel your distaste for it!”

Solas pauses for a moment, then puts his cup back on the tray. “This connection is proving to be more difficult than I had hoped. I am sorry, Dorian.” _regret-guilt_

“Oh, spare me the martyrdom,” Dorian mutters.

One of Leliana’s scouts sits down on a nearby bench. He glances at her, then reaches across and puts his hand on Solas’s knee.

_surprise-anticipation_

He picks up a sweet bun and takes a bite. “So,” he says between mouthfuls. “What are you doing today, my dear?” He feels a faint wave of exasperation from Solas at the endearment.

“I am assisting the healers with improving their magical aid,” he says. “And you?”

Dorian groans. “I am trapped in preparations for the Tevinter visit - Josephine will not be satisfied until she has every last possible piece of information from me, right down to what colour they would prefer to have their cakes iced.”

 _concern_ “You are anxious,” Solas says.

“Yes,” he replies. “Nothing is ever simple with the Magisterium.”

“Do you still expect indenture? The bonding spell will work, I am sure of it.”

“No, not entirely.”

 _concern-care_ “Then what do you fear?”

Dorian sighs. “People look at me here and they see many things. The Chantry see a wicked magister. The mages see a powerful ally. Leliana and Josephine see a source of information. Trevelyan sees a ‘brave and independent heart’, or so she says.”

“And what do you see?”

“That’s what I fear,” Dorian says. “I fear that when Magisterium arrives, with their verbose speeches and casual displays of power, that I will see myself reflected in them.”

Solas places his hand on top of Dorian’s own, where it still rests on his knee. _compassion_ “No, Dorian,” he says. “You have already done the most important thing - you have chosen another path. You came to the south, and you joined the Inquisition, and now you have wed against their wishes. Your life is your own.”

Dorian turns to look at him, once more deeply surprised. “Thank you, Solas,” he says. “But you do realise that my independent spirit is exactly what has landed us in this predicament?”

 _amusement-warmth_ “Perhaps,” he says. “But if the steps are true, then the destination cannot be entirely false.”

Dorian snorts. “So my entire life has been leading me to marry you?”

 _exasperation_ “That is not what I meant.”

“That is what you said.”

 _annoyance_ “No, I said that you should not doubt yourself so.”

Dorian makes a face. “That is most certainly _not_ what you said.”

 _annoyance_ Solas sighs and gets to his feet, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I will see you later, _ara’len_ ,” he says, leaning in.

Later, Dorian will realise that he had meant to kiss him on the cheek, a perfunctory sign of affection. But Dorian, like a right fool, is surprised by the touch of his hand and turns to look at him.

Their mouths collide. The angle is all wrong and neither of them are expecting it, and Dorian can feel his own surprise and embarrassment echoing from Solas. It is Solas who recovers first, reaching out to grasp Dorian’s chin with a small huff of annoyance, tilting his head and pressing closer.

And then suddenly they’re _kissing_ , properly kissing. Solas is gentle at first, just a hot brush of lips against his own, then another, but when Dorian presses closer, _harder_ , he swipes his tongue along his bottom lip.

 _Well_ , Dorian thinks, _two can play at that game_ , and he parts his lips.

He feels a rumble of _indignation-amusement_ as the kiss turns into something slick and hot. He slides his tongue deeper into his mouth, drawing a sharp exhalation from Solas as he chases the taste of the sugary bun in his mouth. But Solas is good at this, Dorian realises with surprise. He is clever with his tongue and when he scrapes his teeth along his lip, Dorian’s breath hitches in a way he will probably deny later.

When they eventually part for breath, Dorian feels a little dazed. He would be embarrassed about it, except he can see a similar look on Solas’s face. And more importantly, he can feel it.

_surprise-bewilderment-pleasure-pride_

Dorian suppresses a scoff at his arrogance - of course he’s proud about the way Dorian’s heart is hammering in his chest, the smug bastard - and feels an answering flutter of humour in response.

“Later, then,” Dorian says, his voice low and deep and full of promise, laying it on as thickly as he can. Solas blushes slightly, and turns and leaves.

“Dorian, darling,” he hears a voice call from behind him, and he turns to see Vivienne. “Whatever did I just witness?”

Dorian sighs inwardly, but he supposes the truth will be all over Skyhold before long. “That was my husband,” he says.

“Oh, my dear,” Vivienne says, her voice curling with pity. “I thought you had taste.”

Dorian doesn’t respond, preoccupied with watching Solas walk away, his _embarrassment-pleasure_ flickering within him. But there is something else there beneath those surface feelings, and Dorian concentrates, trying to tease out the bitter, sad feeling that lies beneath.

It’s loneliness.

* * *

Solas spends much of the morning in a state of distraction. He wishes he had drunk that tea - it would have sharpened his focus, at least to a point. Instead, his mind wanders constantly while the healers take him through their perfunctory spells and techniques, returning again and again to Dorian.

He thinks of the guilt Dorian had felt after his sniping comments, his gratitude at Solas’s reassurance, his warm amusement throughout their conversation. And he thinks of the way his tongue felt across his teeth, the way his moustache had tickled against his nose, and the way his lips were warm and soft against his own.

He had known that this would be dangerous the moment he realised that the spell had not worked in the way he anticipated. Yet this is a kind of danger he had not been expecting, and he needs to be careful, lest this end up even more complicated than it already is. Dorian is already too close, and there is too much at risk, and his whole belief system is already teetering on a precipice.

But it has been so long since anyone touched him.

His preoccupation is not helped by the way Dorian batters at him, a mix of _anger_ and _frustration_ and _annoyance_ , a tangle of _doubt_ and _anxiety_ and _dread_ , flashes of _amusement_ and _delight_ and _curiosity_. It is exhausting.

Eventually he makes his apologies to the healers and returns to the castle, entering Josephine’s office. Dorian is sprawled on a chair, the picture of casual disinterest, but he churns with emotional turmoil.

“May I borrow my husband?” Solas asks.

 _surprise-gratitude-amusement_ Dorian leaps out of his chair and walks over to him, placing a hand on his cheek. He smirks slightly at whatever expression he sees on Solas’s face, then leans in and kisses him with a hot swipe of his tongue along the crease of his mouth. _amusement-pleasure_ “Please,” he says.

“We have not finished!” Josephine says, but she waves him away with a smile, turning her attention to one of her staff.

Dorian wraps his arm around his waist as they leave the room. “What is it?” he asks, leaning down to speak quietly in his ear. Solas can hear whispering in the hall as they pass groups of people in the hall - some amused, some surprised, some scandalised.

“It felt as though you needed to be rescued,” he says.

“Rescued?” Dorian smiles. _amusement_ “My noble husband, swooping in to save me from a tedious morning of moving people around a table?”

Solas raises an eyebrow at him.

“Oh, Josephine just wanted my opinion on the seating arrangement.”

“The seating arrangement,” Solas repeats. “All that was over a table?”

 _confusion-amusement_ “All that?” Dorian asks.

“How can you feel so much over a minor trifle?”

They enter the rotunda, and Solas shakes off Dorian’s arm and walks around to the other side of his desk.

 _frustration_ “It is a complicated affair!” Dorian exclaims. “If there are two magisters with opposing beliefs, do you put them on opposite sides of the room, keeping the peace and the status quo? Or do you seat them together and risk disaster, but make a clear statement that you refuse to abide by decorum?”

“You seat them just close enough that they can see one another engaged in conversation, but with enough distance that they cannot hear the other’s words.”

 _surprise-delight-curiosity_ “Hmmmm,” Dorian murmurs, looking at him intently. “That is exactly what I suggested.”

“Did you?” Solas says. “So you do have some finesse?”

 _exasperation-amusement_ Dorian rolls his eyes. “Where did you learn court intrigue?”

“I have not always been a wandering apostate,” he says, then immediately closes his mouth. He can feel the force of Dorian’s _curiosity_ , sharp and focused, and it frightens him. He reaches for something to deflect it. “But your reaction still seems disproportionate. I could hardly concentrate all morning.”

 _amusement-warmth_ “Is that so?” Dorian says. “I should think that is more your fault than mine.”

Solas glares at him.

 _amusement_ “Well, that is one thing to learn about Tevinter,” Dorian says, placing his palms on the desk and leaning towards him. “We have no reserve - we feel very deeply, about everything from the trivial to the weighty.”

“I am beginning to understand that,” Solas says.

“And I am beginning to understand that there is a lot more to you than meets the eye,” Dorian replies.

Solas holds his gaze, keeping his expression impassive. His emotions blend into Dorian’s, a mix of _interest_ and _curiosity_ and _regard_ and something that might be _fascination_.

“Oh!” a voice behind them says. “I did not…I am sorry to interrupt.”

Solas glances over Dorian’s shoulder to see Cassandra, standing awkwardly in the entryway.

“You are not,” Solas says, taking a step to the side. “Is there something I can assist you with?”

“I wished to speak to you about the Rite of Tranquility,” she says.

“And that would be my cue to leave,” Dorian smiles. “Back to meddling in Magisterium politics, I’m afraid.” _disappointment_

He turns to leave, but Solas reaches out to take his arm. “I will be here if you require a rescue, _ara’len_ ,” he says.

 _delight-amusement_ Dorian snorts with a shake of his head, but he leans in and kisses him. It was probably meant to be a short kiss, Solas realises later, but he can’t seem to stop himself from reaching up to run his fingers through Dorian’s hair, pulling him in so he can slide his tongue into his mouth.

_surprise-amusement-pleasure_

He pulls back when he hears an awkward cough from Cassandra. Dorian swans out of the room, flickering through _pleasure-amusement-confusion_ like a candle flame.

When Cassandra coughs again, Solas tears his gaze back to look at her. “I would like to offer my congratulations,” she begins awkwardly.

“That is not necessary,” Solas says.

“Marriage is a momentous occasion,” she continues. “It should be noted as such. I…I cannot say that I am not surprised. People are whispering that you have rushed into this, and I...might have thought the same, but do not listen to them. You should do what is in your heart.”

“Thank you, Cassandra,” he says, feeling the tips of his ears burning with embarrassment. “That is very kind of you. But you wanted to ask about the Rite of Tranquility?”

“You know that we may be able to reverse the rite?”

Solas nods.

“Only one mage has been cured thus far, and he had no control over his emotions. He was in anguish, and begged to be made Tranquil again.”

“You doubt whether you should be performing the rite,” Solas says.

Cassandra sighs. “Will they suffer more? Will they be a danger to themselves and to others?”

“Quite possibly,” Solas says. “But not all things in life are positive. Pain is as much a part of life as pleasure, and you cannot cut yourself off from one any more than you can the other. They may suffer, but they will live, and live more than the half-life currently given to them. And that is a gift.”

Cassandra sighs. “You are right, I think. But it still fills me with unease.”

“That is because you care,” Solas replies. “It is one of your best traits.”

Cassandra looks surprised. “Thank you,” she says quietly. “I value your advice.” She turns to leave, but then looks back over her shoulder at him. “Do not forget to value it yourself.”

Solas raises an eyebrow at her, confusion on his face.

“You cannot cut yourself off from one any more than you can the other,” she repeats. “You have seen much sadness in your journeys, but you should take what happiness you can find while you can, in these uncertain times.” She nods her head and walks out of the room.

Solas stares after her, a wave of sorrow and loneliness washing over him at her words. He feels a stab of _concern_ from Dorian, and takes a breath, pushing his emotions to the side.

He sits down at his desk. He thinks of the look on Dorian’s face when he had told him there was more to him than he had expected, and the feeling of his warm interest curling through his body. He begins to sketch out some designs for the tailor, based on something he used to wear a very, very long time ago. It is indulgent, and risky, and he needs to exert better control over his emotions.

But it has been so long since anyone touched him.

* * *

********The strangest thing about being married to Solas is that it is not really that strange at all.

Yes, they sleep in the same bed and they wake up together in the morning. Yes, Dorian leans in to whisper in his ear when he perches on his desk, and Solas keeps his hand on his hip when they walk through the hall. But they still spend time together in the rotunda (although no longer on separate levels), and they still argue constantly. Apart from, well, the kissing, not that much is different.

Dorian had braced himself for a flurry of questions from the rest of the Inquisition, but much to his surprise, no one seemed all that shocked.

Sera had wrinkled her nose at him. “Have you two been having it off this whole time?” she asked.

Dorian had sighed. “Thank you, Sera, for your congratulations on this momentous occasion.”

“Ugh,” she had groaned. “I knew you liked watching him stroke his big staff.”

Bull had clapped him on the back with a smile. “Nice work,” he had said.

Dorian had raised his eyebrows at him. “You aren’t surprised?”

“Nah,” Bull had said. “You were always at each other’s throats - figured it had to end in sex eventually.”

“Really,” Dorian had replied, trying to keep his voice measured.

“Wasn’t exactly expecting you to get married, but I suppose Solas is the traditional type.”

Even Vivienne, despite her initial scorn, had been resigned. “My dear, I had thought you might have possessed a little more discernment, but I suppose you are from Tevinter.”

“It’s not like I had a choice!” Dorian replies, then immediately shuts his mouth, expecting Vivienne to immediately leap on his mistake.

But her eyes just soften, and she smiles sadly. “No, I suppose none of us do, when it comes to affairs of the heart.”

But while no one else seems surprised, Dorian certainly is. Solas surprises him constantly: first he agrees to save Dorian’s life, then he admits he fucks men, and then he knows court intrigue, as deftly as if he has been playing the game for years. All Dorian wants is to continue to peel back Solas’s layers, to discover the next surprise that seems to be hiding beneath that cool facade.

And as the days go by, he learns a few things.

One: Solas is possessive.

He gets annoyed when Dorian touches his papers, glaring at him with a burst of _irritation-frustration_. He sighs when Dorian steals bites of his food, rolling his eyes with _exasperation-anger_. It is not that he isn’t generous, Dorian thinks, simply that he keeps a tight hold of the things he believes belong to him.

And it only takes a few days before that Dorian finds himself included in that list.

They’re sitting together at Solas’s desk. Dorian has been reading through the _Lege Ferenda_ , trying to identify other laws that the Magisterium might possibly try to use against him.

“There is a man staring at you,” Solas says suddenly.

Dorian looks up to the balcony, and sure enough, one of Fiona’s mages is leaning on the railing, staring down at them. He jumps and looks awkwardly away as he meets Dorian’s eyes.

“He could be staring at you,” Dorian replies.

 _annoyance_ “He only reacted when he realised that you had seen him,” he says.

“Hmmm,” Dorian says. “Staring at the wicked magister?”

 _displeasure_ “He is clearly infatuated with you,” Solas says.

“Really,” Dorian says. He smiles at the young man, who blushes terribly and looks away.

_annoyance-anger-outrage_

Dorian turns back to look at Solas, who is glaring at him. “What?” he asks.

“You must be more careful,” he says. “We have been wed but days, you cannot start rumours.”

“It was just a smile!” Dorian says. “It was hardly enough to start a rumour.”

Solas just huffs quietly, with a flare of annoyance and a tiny spark of something that might almost be-

Dorian leans forward to stare at him more closely. “Are you _jealous_?” he asks.

 _embarrassment-indignation_ “No,” Solas says.

“You are!” Dorian says, a smile spreading over his face. “You’re jeal- _mmmph_!”

The rest of his sentence dies on his lips as Solas leans in and kisses him firmly on the mouth, his tongue hot against his lips.

Dorian has hardly managed to return the kiss when Solas pulls back, and his eyes immediately dart upwards to where the man has disappeared from the balcony.

_satisfaction-pleasure-pride_

Dorian rolls his eyes. “You’ve scarred that young man for life,” he says. “Hope you’re quite satisfied with that little display.”

“I believe you know the answer to that question,” Solas says, and Dorian laughs.

Two: Solas is easy to embarrass.

He’s always so contained and always so calm, but it takes surprisingly little to make him flustered. Dorian loves watching the tips of his ears flush red, and it quickly becomes something of a game, trying to find new ways to catch him off guard.

He walks into the rotunda one day when Solas is standing at his desk, his back turned to him, and he sneaks quietly up behind him and slaps him on the ass.

 _surprise-embarrassment_ Solas flinches and turns to glare at him, his face burning. “Honestly,” he snaps. “There are people everywhere.”

“Yes, that’s the point, isn’t it?” Dorian whispers in his ear.

Solas sighs. “Surely you can find some way to perform this without manhandling me,” he says. “But why are you here? I thought you were trapped in Josephine’s meetings today.”

“I have a question for you,” Dorian says. “Is it true what they say about elven ears?”

 _suspicion_ Solas narrows his eyes. “What about them?”

“That they’re an erogenous zone,” he says, leaning in and running his finger gently along the top of Solas’s ear.

 _surprise-pleasure-anticipation-excitement_ Solas shivers and lets out a soft gasp, then steps back from Dorian with a glare and a strong flare of _annoyance-affront-embarrassment._

“Go entertain yourself elsewhere,” he snaps, his face burning.

Dorian laughs as he leaves the room, but he can still feel that burst of _pleasure_ echoing from Solas, and he finds himself wondering how he would react if he replaced the touch of his fingers with his teeth.

Three: Solas is always, unfathomly sad.

Now that Dorian knows to look for it, he can feel a constant hum of sorrow and loneliness and guilt, beating away beneath his surface emotions. He does not know what has made him so unhappy - whether it is the marriage or something else.

One night he wakes to find himself alone in the bed. Solas is standing at the window, a wave of _sorrow-loneliness-despair-guilt_ emanating from him.

He watches him stand there, silent and still in the moonlight. He wonders again what could possibly have left Solas with such sadness - a love affair, a family estrangement, a past trauma, perhaps. He opens his mouth to ask, but Solas turns around before he can say anything, obviously aware of his curiosity and concern.

“Go back to sleep,” he says quietly. “I apologise for waking you.”

“Well, I can’t very well go back to sleep with you sulking,” he says. “Get back in the bed.”

Solas sighs, but he doesn’t move.

“Is being married to me that awful?” Dorian says.

 _guilt-sorrow_ “I- no, Dorian,” Solas says, even more quietly. “It is not.”

“But…” Dorian trails off. “You’re always so sad.”

 _despair_ “That is not your fault,” Solas says. “This is a very old pain.”

“Then stop picking at it,” Dorian says. “Is that not what you said to me - you cannot solve a problem by worrying at it in the darkness? That we best deal with them in the daylight?”

 _surprise_ Solas stares at him for a long moment, then returns to the bed.

“ _Kaffas_!” Dorian exclaims as his feet brush his own. “You’re freezing!”

 _annoyance-amusement_ “Do you ever stop complaining?” Solas says.

“I’ll stop complaining when you stop brooding in the middle of the night.”

“I…appreciate your concern,” Solas says. “And I am sorry that you are obviously sharing my emotions. But you cannot help me with this.” He rolls over to face away from Dorian, a clear signal that the conversation is over.

But as Dorian drifts to sleep, he thinks that he does want to help, more than anything. He wants to try and do what he can to ease the pain in Solas’s heart, to fill it with laughter and pleasure and joy. And he wants to roll over and wrap his arms around him, to keep him by his side instead of returning to that sad, desolate place in his mind.

He doesn’t want to think about that too closely. He’s already dealing with more than enough surprises.

* * *

****The most terrible thing about being married to Dorian is that it is not really that terrible at all.

Yes, he has to put up with his incessant chatter and his endless complaining. Yes, he has to keep a constant watch over his own emotions and his own behaviour, lest he reveals something he does not intend. But now there is a warm hand on his shoulder, and someone to speak to first thing in the morning and last thing at night. And although they disagree as they always did, there is a pleasure to it, and their arguments unfold like shared dances rather than skirmishes on a battlefield. He wonders if perhaps that pleasure had always been there, and he had just been too stubborn to see it.

Because he sees Dorian in a way he never had before, in glorious shining colour, in dimension and depth, where before he had only seen what he had expected - flat, empty, shadows.

But no one else seems to see anything all that different. Solas had expected a barrage of outraged questions from the rest of the Inquisition, but he is met with soft smiles and laughter.

Blackwall had shaken his hand. “Congratulations,” he had said. “He’s a bit of a peacock, but I suppose you’ll be a good influence on him.” He gives him a broad smile. “And good for you for finding some… _friends_ outside of the Fade.”

Cole had appeared to him one afternoon when Dorian was busy elsewhere.

“Desired but doubted, dreamed for yet dreaded, different and yet so familiar, like old things from before.”

“Cole,” Solas had said, but Cole kept speaking, staring at him with confusion on his face.

“You can go through the mirror now, but you stare at your own reflection. Why do you not go through?”

Solas had sighed. “It is complicated,” he had said.

“The puzzle has more pieces now, but you know how they fit together,” Cole had said, then promptly disappeared.

But Solas thinks that Cole is wrong - he doesn’t know what to do with the puzzle that is Dorian Pavus, he doesn’t want this puzzle, but he cannot seem to stop himself from trying to solve it.

And over the next few days, he learns a few things.

One: Dorian is insatiably curious.

He peppers him with questions at every turn: questions about language, about the Fade, about ancient Arlathan, about his past. Yet more and more, Solas finds himself answering them. He has never been able to resist genuine interest, and Dorian’s curiosity is warm and bright.

One afternoon they’re sitting together in the courtyard. Solas has been explaining some of Arlathan’s traditions as carefully as he can, leaving large omissions that he blames on incomplete knowledge rather than deliberate misleading.

Dorian looks at him thoughtfully. “Sometimes it sounds like you miss it,” he says.

Solas swallows carefully. “Perhaps I do,” he says.

 _interest-curiosity-confusion_ “You cannot miss a place you have never been,” he says.

“Can you not?” Solas asks. “To ‘miss’ something is to yearn for it, to long for a thing that is absent.”

“But it implies that you possessed the thing in the first place,” Dorian says.

“The words are simply different gradations of the same emotion,” Solas says. “Have you never yearned for a place you have never been?”

 _surprise-thoughtfulness-sorrow_ “I suppose so,” Dorian says. “When I was young I used to wish for a place where I would be free to be be who I wanted, to do what I pleased, to love who I desired. But when I was young, that place was as impossible as Arlathan is to you - you cannot miss it.”

“It is not impossible,” Solas says.

 _annoyance_ “Yes, I know, you can visit Arlathan whenever you wish in your dreams.”

“No,” Solas says. “I meant that it is not impossible to find the place that you desire. Have you not found some of that here, in the South?”

 _surprise_ “Perhaps,” Dorian says cautiously.

“You have found a place where you can make your own choices and your own pathways, and the rest will follow.”

Dorian looks at him with another burst of curiosity. “Were you ever married?” he asks.

“No,” Solas says, confused by the sudden turn in the conversation.

“Why not?”

“I…I was more concerned with other things.”

“Like what?”

“Justice,” Solas says. “Righting the wrongs that I saw in the world.”

Dorian snorts. “You sound even more insufferable than you are now.”

“I was hot-blooded and cocky,” Solas admits.

 _curiosity-interest-regard_ “I would have liked to have known you then,” he says.

“You know me now.”

“Do I?”

There’s a challenge in Dorian’s eyes and a feeling of _daring_ in his heart, but before Solas can respond, he hears Josephine call from the castle doorway.

“Duty calls, I’m afraid,” Dorian says, and he gets to his feet and kisses him on the top of his head. It’s far more chaste than their usual kisses but it feels far more intimate because of it, and Solas watches him walk away with a frown on his face, feeling like he has been handed even more pieces to the puzzle.

Two: Dorian is generous, gracious even, quick to accept his own mistakes.

One evening, Solas returns to Dorian’s bedroom after collecting his new robes from the tailor. Dorian is lounging on the settee, but he leaps to his feet with a spark of interest in his eyes as soon as he spots the garment in Solas’s arms.

“Let’s see it, then,” he says.

Solas suppresses a sigh of annoyance as Dorian plucks the robes from his hands, holding them up.

The robes follow the fashion of Arlathan - a high neck, cut to accentuate the shoulders, and with a sash that falls over the shoulder and is belted at the waist. The tailor had chosen deep green velvet and royale sea silk.

Dorian’s gaze shifts between the robes and Solas and back again, _shock-pleasure-confusion-bewilderment_ emanating from him. ‘Well,” he eventually says. “You’ve rendered me quite speechless, this is a first.”

“They are satisfactory, then?” Solas asks.

“Satisfactory?” Dorian snorts. “These are actually nice - you’ve been holding out on me.”

Solas rolls his eyes but feels a small kernel of pride, and he sees Dorian scoff with a smile on his face. “Just because I do not see the need to drape myself in finery every day does not mean that I cannot do so when needed.”

“I see right through you, you know,” Dorian says, gesturing at him. “You wear these rags to deliberately appear nondescript.”

“Of course,” he says. “Is not every outfit a costume? Does not every clothing choice tell us how a person wishes to be seen?”

 _interest-regard_ “And how do I wish to be seen?” Dorian asks.

“You wish to be noticed,” Solas says. “You wear your individuality like armor.”

“Hmmm,” Dorian says. “Well, I suppose we shall both be noticed at the reception. Perhaps I should wear something to match?”

“If you must,” Solas sighs, and takes the robes back from Dorian.

Dorian stops him with a hand on his arm. “I apologise for what I said before,” he says. “I was too quick to judge, and you are right: clothing is but armor, and armor works to hide what lies beneath.”

Solas can feel himself gaping, and Dorian raises an eyebrow. “What?” he asks.

“Nothing,” Solas says. “Just…you have not been what I expected.”

“Perhaps you should have looked beneath my outfit,” Dorian says with a grin.

Solas chuckles, shaking his head. “Was that not what our wedding night was for?” he says, and Dorian bursts into surprised, delighted laughter.

Three: Dorian _likes_ their public displays of affection.

It had started out as something of a game between them: who started with tongue first, who would be the first to reach for the other. Dorian kisses him at every opportunity; he casually slings his arm around his shoulders; he (much to Solas's frustration) puts his feet in his lap when they sit together in the rotunda by day and in Dorian's bedroom at night. Dorian loves the game - he can feel his delight when he makes him blush.

But he also loves it when Solas touches him. Solas runs his fingers through his hair when they kiss, and he keeps his palm on his back when they stand next to one another, and he strokes his ankles when he deposits his feet in his lap. And every time, he feels small bursts of _pleasure-pride-thrill_ from Dorian. It is not personal, Solas thinks - he simply likes being seen. He likes the thrill of doing something that he believed was forbidden, he likes expressing a desire that he was taught was inappropriate. And as long as he likes being claimed in public, Solas will continue to do so, drawn back again and again to the bright feeling of his _pleasure_.

But he also finds himself reaching for Dorian in private moments, when there are no eyes on them. At night, when Dorian sleeps, he lies next to him and watches him breathe. His eyes trace over his face: the faint lines on his brow, the aquiline nose, those perfect, full lips. He clenches his fists to stop himself from reaching out to stroke his face, from leaning forward to run his fingers down the smooth skin of his neck. He cannot touch him like this, outside the parameters of their public performance. It is not fair.

But in the last few nights, he keeps waking up to find Dorian in his arms: his back against his chest, his legs tangled in his own, his hair tickling against his face. He had always prided himself on having supreme control of his body while he walked the Fade, but now, it seems that it is determined to do what it will. And he supposes he cannot fault it, for Dorian feels so real beneath his hands: his body warm and comforting, all strong muscle and soft flesh.

So he lies there, his fingers gently touching his chest, and he knows that while Dorian might still be playing the game, Solas has already lost. And he despairs.

Because none of this is real - the marriage isn’t real, Dorian's touches aren't real, and Dorian himself can't be real. But he wants him to be real, even if it means that everything is real.

He tries not to think about that too closely. This puzzle already has too many pieces.

* * *

****

The day before Tevinter is due to arrive, Dorian escapes Josephine’s frantic preparations and heads straight to the rotunda, figuring he can use Solas as an excuse if Josephine goes looking for him.

He finds him sitting behind his desk, sketching something, and he looks up when he approaches. “Dorian,” he says, with the little burst of pleasure he is beginning to feel every time he sees him. “How was your afternoon?”

“Tedious,” he replies. He comes around to stand behind Solas. “What are you doing?”

 _suspicion-anxiety_ “Why?” he asks.

“How many times, Solas?” Dorian sighs. “This is what married couples do - they take interest in one another’s lives.”

 _annoyance-regret_ “Of course,” Solas says smoothly. “After sketching that design for the tailor, I realised that I had forgotten how much I enjoyed sketching. I do not do it as often as I would like.”

Dorian looks pointedly at the papers, and Solas sighs, handing them to him. The sketches are largely of an ancient elven city, filled with arches and trees.

“It is Arlathan,” Solas says, answering the question he can obviously feel emanating from Dorian. “Or as I have seen it in the Fade.”

“Hmmm,” Dorian says, flicking through the pages. “It makes me think of Minrathous.”

 _anger_ Solas’s lips set in a thin line. “The Tevinter Imperium stole much from the ancient elves.”

“Not just in architecture,” Dorian says, looking more closely at the sketches. It has the same sense of...decadence.” He looks back up at Solas. “You hate Tevinter, yet it is so similar to the city you revere?”

 _fury_ “I do not revere the ancient elves,” Solas snaps.

“Really?” Dorian retorts. “You talk of little else.”

“There is a difference between interest and blind devotion,” Solas says. “You are interested in necromancy - are you devoted to death?”

“I don’t bring up death in every single conversation!”

 _anger-exasperation_ Solas sighs. “I detest slavery, and unnecessary ostentation, and the concentration of power within organisations. It just so happens that Tevinter exemplifies those characteristics.”

“Why?”

 _annoyance_ “Surely you do not require a history of the Imperium.”

“I meant why do you hate those qualities?”

 _exasperation-anger_ “You are asking me why I hate slavery,” Solas says flatly.

“Were you a slave?”

 _anger_ “One does not need to experience something personally to understand it.” He stands up suddenly. “Why are you asking me these questions?”

Dorian knows he is playing a dangerous game, but he cannot control his curiosity. “Perhaps I would like to learn a little more about my husband.”

“Leave it, Dorian,” Solas says.

“But Solas,” Dorian says with a frown. “You’ve been discontent all afternoon - it’s really quite exhausting, you know.” He puts the papers back on the desk. “If this obsession is not making you happy, you should leave the past in the past.”

 _fury_ “It is my knowledge of the past that is protecting you from slavery, or have you forgotten that?”

“I thought it was my independent spirit,” Dorian retorts.

“Will you not leave well enough alone?” Solas snaps. “You are meddlesome.”

“That is better than being a martyr.”

“A _martyr_?"

“The past makes you unhappy, yet you chain yourself to it.”

 _fury-anticipation_ “You presume too much,” Solas says. “You do not know what you are talking about.”

“I might not know it, but I can certainly feel it!” Dorian exclaims.

Solas reaches out and grabs the front of his robe, his nostrils flaring with _fury._ “I told you to respect my privacy.”

“And I told you,” Dorian says. “I have no reserve.”

His heart pounds with a rush of _anger-excitement-thrill-anticipation_ and...and _arousal_? But before he can untangle where his emotions end and Solas’s begin, Solas pulls him in and slams their mouths together.

He licks Dorian’s mouth open like he’s desperate for it, and the force of it goes straight to Dorian’s cock. He kisses him back just as furiously, stepping in to press their bodies together from chest to hip. Solas scrapes his teeth over his bottom lip, just a fraction too rough but exactly the way Dorian likes it. He thrusts his hips up against Solas’s with a soft groan, but before he can repeat the motion he feels a long, surprisingly muscled thigh slide between his legs, and he grinds against it, grateful for the friction. Dorian can feel Solas’s arousal: both a sense of _arousal-desire-surprise-arousal_ radiating through his body, and the rather more physical evidence of Solas’s hard cock pressing against his hip.

He has the thrilling, terrifying thought that they might both come like this, fully clothed, rutting up against one another in the middle of the rotunda, when Solas pushes him back with a gasp.

 _arousal-surprise-confusion-fear-arousal-regret-sorrow-confusion-arousal_ “I am sorry, Dorian,” Solas says.

“Whatever for?” Dorian asks incredulously.

“This is…inappropriate.”

Dorian scoffs. “Have you forgotten that we are married?”

 _arousal-annoyance-regret-sorrow-arousal_ “It is not a good idea.”

“It is just sex, Solas,” Dorian says with exasperation. “It does not have to be…sentimental.” Dorian looks pointedly to where Solas’s cock strains against his leggings. "And it certainly looks like you think it is a good idea - you want this, I can _feel_ it."

 _anger-arousal-sorrow-arousal_ “That is exactly why we should not do this,” Solas says. “This is not real - you are being influenced by my emotions.”

“Excuse me?” Dorian says. “Why do your emotions take precedence?”

“I said it had been some time since I had…done this,” Solas continues. “That means-”

“You are such an arrogant bastard!” Dorian yells, cutting him off. “Do you think of no one but yourself?”

“I am precisely thinking of someone other than myself,” Solas sighs. “This is not fair to you.”

“Of course it’s not fucking fair!” Dorian says. He gestures downwards. “You’re just going to leave us both like this?”

 _embarrassment-arousal-confusion-sorrow_ Solas says nothing, taking a step back and turning away.

Dorian sighs. “I need a drink.” He takes a step back. “Come on.”

 _annoyance_ “No,” Solas says.

“People will wonder where my husband is.”

“I do not like taverns.”

“It is hardly a tavern.”

“It is noisy and cramped and filled with people losing control of their faculties. It is a tavern.”

“You are impossible!” he exclaims. “Stay here and be a martyr, if you wish.” He spins on his heel and takes two steps towards the exit. He catches a glimpse of a few nobles in the hall, all craning curiously towards their raised voices. He pivots back to Solas to grab his shoulders and kiss him, hard and angry.

“I will see you in bed,” he mutters, and stalks off to the Herald’s Rest.

He's walking down the stairs at the castle entrance, wondering if he should have been more direct - _I know we only got married to save my life but it turns out I’d actually quite like you to pin me down and fuck me until I can’t walk straight_ \- when a cloth-covered hand suddenly seizes his face and his world slips away into the darkness.

* * *

Solas paces around the rotunda, agitated and aroused and angry - angry at Dorian, angry at himself, angry at the entire sorry state of affairs.

Dorian burns within him - _confusion-anger-arousal-desire-embarrassment-anxiety_ \- too bright, too loud, too much. He feels everything so strongly, so powerfully. It is infuriating, it is irritating, and it is completely, utterly intoxicating.

He had thought him intemperate and impatient and indulgent - and he is all of those things, still, but he is also curious and thoughtful, perceptive and considerate. So he had pushed him away in the rotunda, frightened of how close he had come to losing himself in the warmth of his body. He does not know what to do with this strange desire.

Dorian deserves better than this, a false marriage under false pretences. Solas can feel years of shame and guilt within him, years of dread and certainty that he would never know a true romance. And this is hardly a true romance - beyond the sham of the marriage, beyond the fact that he is not who he says he is, there is the bond. Dorian can most certainly feel Solas’s own desire, and it is clearly colouring his judgement and influencing his behaviour. Solas will not take something that is not offered freely.

But all he wants to do is to put his hands on him, to touch the only real thing he’s felt since he woke a year ago.

He’s contemplating returning to their bedroom (no, Dorian’s bedroom, not _theirs_ , there is no _they_ ) when Dorian suddenly disappears from within him. One moment he was a mix of _anticipation-arousal-embarrassment-confusion_ , the next there was nothing.

Solas feels a shiver of fear run down his spine, and he sweeps out of the room and down to the Herald’s Rest. The tavern is crowded, but he cannot see Dorian at all. He’s turning to leave when a large, warm hand grasps his arm.

“Solas?” Bull says. “What are you doing here?”

“I am looking for Dorian,” he says.

“Haven't seen him,” Bull replies.

Solas feels uneasy. “He left for the tavern some time ago.”

“Hmmm,” Bull says. “Well, he can’t have gone far between here and the castle.”

Solas nods, but the empty space within his heart gnaws at him, and he can feel himself biting his lip.

Bull frowns at him. “What makes you so worried?”

“I am not worried,” Solas says, relaxing his face. “I…I simply need to apologise.”

“Lover’s spat?” Bull asks. “Surprised it took you so long.”

“We have not been wed long,” Solas says.

“Yeah, but arguing’s basically foreplay for you two, right?” Bull smiles. “Listen, Solas, I know Dorian can be a bit uptight, but he’s a good man.”

“I know that,” Solas says, and he does.

“Then why are you so frightened?”

Solas gives him a suspicious look, and Bull shrugs. “Ben-Hassarath, remember? Something's not right here - you're both dancing around one another."

"Everything is fine," Solas says through gritted teeth.

Bull gives him a pointed look. "Way I see it, there’s three options when you’re scared: you can flee, you can fight, or you can fuck. I’d go for the third.”

Solas sighs. "Yes, thank you, Bull."

“Just fuck him against the wall, or vice versus, if that’s the way you want to do it.” 

Solas opens his mouth to reply, but suddenly Dorian springs to life back within him.

_fear-confusion-fear-anger-fear-pain_

“He is in trouble,” he blurts out, spinning on his heel and darting out of the tavern.

“Wait, Solas,” he hears Bull call after him. “How do you know that?”

He pauses in the yard, looking around him, trying to figure out where the Tevinter agents might be hiding. It is Tevinter, he is sure of it. His eye falls on one of the derelict rooms along the battlements. There is nothing in that room but broken furniture and vines, but tonight, he can see a flickering light.

He races up the stairs, Dorian’s _fear-anger-fear-pain_ beating away in time with the pounding of his own heart. When he gets to the room, he pauses outside the door, listening for voices within.

“What do you mean the spell is not working?” a voice asks.

“The bond will not take,” says another. “There is something else there.”

“Something else?” says the first. “Are you enslaved to the Inquisitor?”

“Hardly,” Dorian scoffs, and Solas’s heart skips a beat at the sound of his familiar, scathing tone. He focuses on the lock, freezing and shattering it quietly.

“Then whose magic is this?”

Solas pushes open the door and strides into the room. “It is mine,” he says.

Dorian is kneeling on the floor, his wrists tied behind his back. He looks up at Solas, _surprise-gratitude-amusement_ radiating from him. Two Tevinter magisters stand on either side of him, looking at Solas with confusion and anger.

“And who would you be?”

“His husband,” Solas says, dropping to his knees next to Dorian so he can untie his bonds.

“Your _what_?” one of the magisters asks, turning to look at Dorian with a sneer.

“That’s right,” Dorian says, allowing Solas to pull him to his feet. “This is my husband.”

“That is not possible.”

“Oh, I can assure you, it is,” Dorian smiles. “The South is a marvellous place.”

“You married an elf?” the second magister sneers.

 _amusement-glee_ “I married an apostate,” Dorian says. He is obviously enjoying this.

The first magister looks back at Solas. “This is elven magic? It is not like any elven magic I understand.”

Solas glares at him. “You know little of elven magic.”

“I have never heard of an elf taking a human as a slave,” the magister continues. “It is…abnormal.”

“He is not my slave,” Solas snaps, fists clenching in anger. “He is my husband.”

 _delight-glee_ “That ‘something else’ you feel?” Dorian grins. “That would be our marriage bond.”

The magister makes a face. “ _That_ is also abnormal.”

Solas feels a wave of _offence-fury-shame-despair_ from Dorian. He reaches out to take his hand, squeezing it slightly. “There is nothing abnormal about love,” he says.

Dorian’s warm _surprise-gratitude-affection_ washes over him.

“You are saying that your marriage bond is the barrier we can feel?” the second magister asks. “I have never heard such a ridiculous thing.”

“You only think it ridiculous because you cannot conceive of any relationship beyond domination and submission,” Solas says.

The door bangs open once more, and Leliana walks in, followed closely by Trevelyan. “What is the meaning of this?” she snaps.

 _delight-amusement_ “Oh, attempted enslavement, a dramatic rescue, the usual evening in Skyhold,” Dorian smirks.

Trevelyan’s lips set in a thin line. “You dare to harm one of my most trusted associates and dearest friends while partaking of my hospitality?”

The magisters look at one another, but remain silent.

“Get out,” Trevelyan says. “I do not want to any receive any more missives from the Magisterium unless they are accompanied by Corypheus’s head on a pike.”

“No,” Leliana says. “We must keep them here for questioning - at least until the morning.”

“Fine,” Trevelyan sighs. “I suppose Josephine will not be happy if I cause a diplomatic incident without her.” She looks at the guards. “Lock them into a cell - no, separate cells - for the night. Treat them firmly but with courtesy."

As the guards lead the magisters away, Solas looks back at Dorian, who is rubbing the skin of his wrists.

“Let me, _ara'len_ ,” he says, and he takes Dorian’s wrists in his hands and casts a simple healing spell. Dorian sighs as the magic begins to work, and reaches up to clasp Solas’s own wrists, his thumbs rubbing against the delicate skin.

“It seems you were right,” he says.

“Of course,” Solas says. “I did tell you that the spell would work.”

“Thank you,” Dorain says, _gratitude_ emanating from him. “I suppose I owe you my life.”

“I suppose you do,” Solas says.

“Don’t get smug, now.”

He hears a cough from behind him, and suddenly he’s aware that they’re still holding each other’s wrists. He lets go of Dorian and takes a step away.

Trevelyan barely suppresses a snort. "I'm sure you two have better things to be doing, but Dorian, we need to debrief."

Dorian sighs. "Fine, I shall regale you with the tale of how I got kidnapped in my own home," he says.

Solas moves towards the door, but Dorian calls out to him just as he reaches the doorway. "You had better be in our chambers when I'm done," he says.

So that's where he goes, back to the room that he's already grown far too accustomed to, filled with the presence of the man he's already far too attached to. He closes his eyes but it makes little difference: he can still feel Dorian beating away within his chest. He opens his eyes with a sigh of resolve. He knows what he needs to do.

He turns around as the door opens. “Dorian,” he begins, but Dorian interrupts.

“You know, you may have been right about that spell, but that does not mean you are right about everything.” He closes the door behind him, then stops and turns to face him with a smile. “You saved my life - shall we see about a reward?”

“Oh, _vhenan_ ,” Solas says, reaching up to touch his face. “You do not know what you are saying.” He leans in and kisses him, Dorian reaching for him eagerly, and as he does so, he removes the spell.

Dorian takes a step back from him, gasping, his hand flying to his chest. “What did you just do?”

“What I had to,” Solas says. “The bond is no longer necessary and I would not keep you in it a moment longer.”

Dorian looks aghast, and Solas feels the empty space within him aching. “ _Vishante kaffas_!” he exclaims. “You are such a hypocrite!”

“A hypocrite?” he exclaims, anger swelling within him.

“You are obsessed with agency and choice, yet you give them to no one but yourself!”

“You do not understand!”

“And there you go again, presuming that you know better than everyone and anyone!”

“Dorian,” Solas says more gently. “You do not want a false...encounter. You do not deserve a false encounter. You deserve to want someone with your own free will, not coloured by the desires of someone else. You deserve something real.”

“A false encounter?” Dorian says with a raise of his eyebrows. “Sometimes it feels like the line between truth and lies is very thin these days.”

Solas feels his heart beating in his chest. “What do you mean?”

“Is that not what you said, the day after our wedding?” Dorian continues. “If the steps are true, the destination cannot be false?”

Solas just stares at him.

“Well, the bond is gone, is it not? You cannot feel what I do, and I cannot feel what you do?”

Solas nods, his heart hammering in his chest.

“Then let me show you what I want,” he says, and he drops to his knees.

* * *

All things considered, Dorian hadn’t exactly expected to end the day on his knees, Solas’s cock in his mouth. But he isn’t complaining, certainly not while Solas grips his hair, just hard enough to hurt, as his hips roll against his face.

He leans back to lick the tip of Solas’s cock. “Does this feel real enough for you?” he asks.

Solas groans, his hips stuttering in Dorian’s hands, and Dorian leans forward to swallow him down again.

Solas pushes at his hair. “Stop,” he says. “You must stop, unless you want me to…” he trails off.

“It’s sex, Solas,” Dorian smirks. “That is the whole idea.” He leans forward again, but Solas’s hands tighten in his hair.

“No,” he says. “Not yet.” He takes a step to the side. “There must be something else you want,” he says.

“Well,” Dorian smiles, getting to his feet and wiping his mouth with his hand. “I was rather hoping you’d fuck me.”

Solas blinks at him. “Truly?” he asks.

“Yes, Solas, truly,” he says, rolling his eyes and grabbing his hand, pressing it to where his own hard cock strains against his trousers.

Solas looks at him thoughtfully, then runs a finger over the outline of Dorian’s cock. “Have you done this before?”

He scoffs. “Of course. Have you?”

“Yes,” Solas says. “I take equal pleasure in both sides of the act.”

Dorian grimaces. “Do you have to make it sound so clinical?”

“Fine,” Solas says, a hint of annoyance in his voice. “I will fuck you now, and later, if you so wish, you may fuck me.”

Dorian feels a bolt of arousal shoot through his groin, but before he can reply, Solas leans in and, in a single, smooth movement, slides his tongue into his mouth at the same time as he reaches into his trousers and takes his cock in his hand.

Dorian groans into his mouth. “Real enough for you now?” he asks, grinding up against him, his hand reaching again for Solas’s cock.

“Stop that,” Solas says, batting his hand away. “It is not a race.”

“Then hurry up about it.”

“You have no patience,” Solas sighs, but he walks them both to the bed, stripping his clothes off between kisses. He pauses at Dorian’s shirt. “What is the purpose of so many buckles?” he says with exasperation.

Dorian laughs. “Now who’s impatient?” he says, stepping aside so he can divest himself of his clothes.

For a moment they just stare at one another. Dorian’s eyes run down Solas’s body: his broad shoulders, his narrow hips, the smattering of freckles across his chest. He is lithe and toned, and Dorian’s eyes linger on his muscled thighs, struck by the sudden desire to feel them gripped around his body.

Solas reaches out and touches his chest gently, his expression a mix of hunger and wonder.

Dorian smiles. “See something you like?”

Solas rolls his eyes with a smile and pushes him onto the bed, climbing on top of him to kiss him once more. They both gasp as their cocks brush one another, and Dorian has to take a deep breath to prevent himself from thrusting up mindlessly against him.

“Where is your oil?” Solas asks breathlessly.

Dorian waves a hand toward the dresser, and Solas climbs off him to fetch it, returning to the bed and straddling his hips. He takes the oil in his hands, then pauses, looking at him thoughtfully. He places the oil deliberately to one side and begins to move down his body. He kisses his nipples, his stomach, and pauses at his cock.

“Well, go on, then,” Dorian says. “Just don’t get yourself too excited.”

Solas smirks, then lowers his head to lick a hot stripe from the base to the tip. Dorian sighs and closes his eyes, anticipation curling in his gut.

His eyes snap open when he feels Solas’s hot breath move lower, past his balls, down to-

“What are you-” he begins, then gasps when Solas licks against him, over and over again.

Dorian writhes on the bed. Solas grips his hips with a small sound of annoyance, spreading his legs apart and holding him in place. His tongue licks over him once more, then slides into him, _fucks_ into him, and Dorian can feel his legs quivering as he moans with pleasure.

Eventually he pushes at Solas’s head. “Enough,” he gasps.

Solas smirks.

“Perhaps you would like to fuck me with something else?” he asks, his eyes dropping to where Solas’s cock curves against his stomach, hard and leaking.

“Soon,” Solas says, opening the oil and slicking his fingers. Dorian groans as a long, elegant finger slips inside him, then another, slowly working him open. Solas watches his face intently, cataloguing his reactions, and he smiles smugly as his fingers brush against a spot that makes Dorian gasp and shudder. He moans as Solas drags his fingertips over it, again and again and again.

“Please,” he gasps.

“Please what?” Solas smirks.

“Please fuck me.”

“That is what we are doing, I believe,” he says, but he slides his fingers out, reaching again for the oil. He leans back slightly as he slicks his fingers once more, then leisurely pumps his cock.

“ _Hurry up_ ,” Dorian groans. As Solas leans over to place the oil on Dorian's dresser, Dorian seizes the moment to knock him off balance, pushing him onto the bed so he can climb on top of him and straddle his hips.

Solas shakes his head. “So impatient,” he says, but his eyes are glazed with lust.

“Are you complaining?” Dorian asks, then tilts his hips so he can lower himself down onto Solas’s cock.

Solas lets out a groan and Dorian’s cock twitches in response. He has never seen him like this - pupils blown, face flushed, head titled back in pleasure. He feels thrilled at the thought that Solas - calm, collected, impenetrable _Solas_ \- is letting him see him in this state. When he’s finally seated, they stare at one another for a moment, then Dorian begins to rock his hips, drinking in Solas’s gasps and moans.

He can feel Solas’s hips twitching, and he knows that he is holding back, trying to stop himself from thrusting up into him.

He rolls his hips again. “Go on, then,” he says with a smile, and Solas grabs his waist, turning them over once more. He slides out of Dorian slightly, and Dorian makes a soft, forlorn noise, wrapping his legs around his waist to pull him back into him.

Solas shudders, then begins to thrust into him with purpose.

Dorian knows he’s making all matter of noise, but he cannot seem to stop himself, particularly not while Solas is keeping up a maddening rhythm against his prostrate. He grips Solas’s waist, his body shuddering with each thrust, his neglected cock aching between them.

“Please,” he hears himself whisper at one point, and vaguely senses Solas reaching for the oil again, keeping his other hand steady on his hip. When a slick hand coils around his cock, Dorian near whimpers, unable to decide whether to thrust up into his hand or down onto his cock.

He’s close, so close, when Solas removes his hand.

“What are you doing?” Dorian gasps.

“I think someone needs a lesson in patience,” Solas murmurs, pinning Dorian’s arms to his side as he furtively attempts to reach for his cock.

“Fuck,” Dorian gasps. “ _Fuck_.” Solas thrusts into him harder, his hips snapping against him. Every single one of Dorian’s nerve endings feels like it is on fire.

“ _Jupalan ma sule tel mar sule’din_ ,” Solas whispers, his voice deep and rough. “ _Nuvenan rosa’da’din in ma sule enan’ma._ ”

Dorian doesn’t know what the words mean but something about the tone makes him shudder, and he comes hard, his back arching, his cock still untouched. He feels himself clench down around Solas, who groans deeply and lowers his forehead to his own as he spills into him.

They lie there, gasping into the curve of one another’s necks. When Solas goes to roll off him, Dorian feels a blast of cold air and he grips him more tightly, holding him in place.

“ _Mmmph_ ,” Solas murmurs. “Dorian, let go, you are filthy.”

“And whose fault is that?” Dorian replies, but he lets him go, shivering slightly as the cool air washes over his skin.

Solas gets off the bed to fetch a washcloth, dipping it in the basin by the door and cleaning himself off, then throwing it at Dorian.

“Charming,” he mutters, but he cleans the mess from his stomach.

Solas climbs back into the bed and pulls the covers over them both. He feels something warm against his ass, and he looks down to see a tiny flare of light, Solas’s hands alight with magic.

“Stop that,” he says, jerking away.

“I would not have you aching tomorrow,” Solas replies.

“I _want_ to feel it,” Dorian says. “I want to walk around Skyhold, and with every step, remember exactly what we just did.”

Solas makes a face, but he removes his hand.

“So,” Dorian says. “What now?”

Solas sighs softly. “That is the question, is it not?”

“We are no longer married,” Dorian says. “We’ve had fun, and worked out some…tension, and-”

“Actually, I believe we are,” Solas interrupts.

Dorian raises himself up on one arm to look at him. “We are what?”

“Married,” Solas says. “I removed the magical bond, but Leliana also ordained the wedding. I do not entirely understand the complexities of the law, but I believe that from the perspective of the Chantry, we remain married.”

“Oh,” Dorian says.

Solas shifts next to him. “I am sure if we spoke to Leliana, we could-”

“No,” Dorian says.

“What?”

“No,” he says. “Leave it.”

“Leave it,” Solas repeats.

“If the Magisterium returns to asking questions - and I would not put it past them to snoop - it would not do well to have absolved the marriage.”

“Oh,” Solas says. “Yes, of course.”

“Besides,” Dorian says more slowly. “Let no one tear asunder what was given in freedom.”

Solas takes a sharp, indrawn breath.

“Yes, I remember the words of your little sex spell,” Dorian says.

“It is hardly a sex spell!” Solas exclaims.

“ _I give you myself to make one from two_ ,” Dorian laughs. “That sounds like sex to me.”

“It is about love,” Solas snaps. “The two can be found together.”

Dorian sighs. “I would not know,” he says.

He turns onto his back and stares at the ceiling. He is not entirely sure how he feels. He had wanted to fuck Solas, and now he has, and he most certainly wants to do it again. But beyond that?

He finds himself thinking suddenly of Solas’s hands: how firmly they had pinned his arms to the bed, and how gently they had touched his raw wrists.

“I would not know,” he says again, and he takes a deep breath and a leap of faith and a terrible, terrible risk, all at once. “But I think, perhaps, that I should like to find out.”

He keeps his eyes on the ceiling until he feels Solas’s hand on his cheek, turning his face to meet his eyes.

"If that is what you want," he says.

“And what do _you_ want?” Dorian asks.

He looks away briefly, a frown on his face, before returning his eyes to Dorian’s. “A future,” he says softly.

Dorian feels his heart leap wildly in his chest. “Well,” he says, a smile spreading uncontrollably across his face. “Those are both lofty goals. Perhaps we should start with something smaller?”

A smile plays at the corner of Solas’s lips. “And what did you have in mind?”

Dorian grins. “I believe you said something about letting me fuck you?”

Solas’s eyes alight with mischief. He runs a finger along the length of Dorian’s cock - still soft, but probably not for much longer, if he keeps that up - and smirks at him. “I would hardly call that a _small_ goal.”

Dorian snorts with laughter. “You really are full of surprises,” he says, and leans in to kiss him once more.

**Author's Note:**

> This was written as a treat for wednesday for the 2019 Just Married exchange. I loved your prompts for this pair and I could not resist, hence this monster of a gift. Thank you for your enthusiasm for this rarepair, and I hope you enjoy the story. 
> 
> Some of the dialogue is taken/adapted quite closely from the game. 
> 
> Thanks to [this](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3553883/chapters/7825850) amazing resource for the elven translations, and for enabling me to give Solas a dirty mouth.
> 
>  _Jupalan ma sule tel mar sule’din_ : I will fuck you until you have no endurance left. 
> 
> _Nuvenan rosa’da’din in ma sule enan’ma_ : I want to come inside you until I spill out of you.
> 
> The title technically comes from Tina Turner’s "Simply the Best", but we all knows it really comes from the _Schitt’s Creek_ cover because I am very soft.


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